When the audience rose for its standing ovation, Harriet remained in her seat, quaking in orgasm. The tremors pulsed against his tongue as the applause went on. For him. For them.
Bravo.
He helped her to her feet, threw the fur over her red dress. She didn’t meet his eye.
“Are you all right?”
“I—I don’t want to see anyone. Your friends. They’d know.”
She was flushed. Beautiful. Still shaking. They might know what he had done, at that.
“We’ll use the back stairs.” He guided her down the narrow twisting staircase to the alley. Lights flashed from the crowded sidewalk, and he covered her with the cloak. Josephson was waiting in the agreed-upon spot and they drove home in silence.
Hitchborn greeted them at the door like a benevolent uncle. “Did you enjoy the play, Miss Benson?”
“It was wonderful,” Harriet said in a subdued voice. “But I’m very tired. If you will excuse me, Sir Thomas, I’m going straight up to bed.”
When Thomas turned her door knob half an hour later, the door was locked.
So, that was it. It was past midnight, after all. Trust Harriet to stick to the rules.
He knocked. “Marry me, Harry. I’m begging you!”
Thomas stood in the hallway until his pride revolted. “Good-bye,” he said. “I’ll leave the check on your desk.”
Chapter 41
Friday, January 6, 1905
When the sun rose, Thomas was no closer to figuring out how to get Harriet to stay. Last night, he’d dropped to his knees in the theater box and got under her skirts, and then begged her—begged her!—to marry him.
Maybe Harriet was right and he was making a fool of himself. Beating a dead horse; though he couldn’t decide who the equine was in this equation. She didn’t want him as a lover or a husband, and that was that. Why would he want someone who didn’t want him?
It was a mystery. He’d just have to try not to want her.
The idea was so discouraging, Thomas couldn’t get out of bed.
She wouldn’t even let him in to say good-bye last night. He supposed there really was nothing left to say. So Thomas was going to shut himself alone in his room and lick his wounds, wallow in his unhappiness, and perhaps get out of bed next week.
His valet Cressley had other ideas.
“Go away,” Thomas said. He was too sad to shout.
“I need to come in, sir.” The odd look on the man’s face when he did made Thomas sit up.
She was gone already.
“What is it? Did someone set fire to the sofa? Crash the car?” Thomas tried to joke.
“No, Sir Thomas. I have brought a pot of coffee and the newspapers for your perusal. Brace yourself.” Cressley set the tray down and slipped into the dressing room very rapidly for a man his age.
Thomas picked the first one up. It had already been opened and folded to what passed for the society page.
Is Sir T- Tamed?
Below the headline was a damned good rendering of Harriet, sitting alone in his box.
“Sir T- F-, London’s most elusive bachelor, may have been brought to his knees at last. Florodora girls hoping to be the next Lady F- are weeping inconsolably.”
Tubby’s Secret Temptation
He didn’t bother to read the article—the headline was enough.
Mystery Mistress for Man About Town
Oh, God. There was an actual photograph as they left the theater by way of the back alley. As though they were sneaking out, which they were. Harriet was a bit blurry, but anyone who knew her would recognize her.
Art Impresario Impresses with Lady ‘Friend’ on Opening Night: What Happened When the Curtains Were Closed?
The curtains had been open when Thomas had his outstanding performance. Bloody hell.
He recollected the pack of jackals that had dogged Nick last fall, and his brother Alec before that. Was he going to look out of his window and find the yellow press on his doorstep?
“Cressley, you coward! Come back in here!” he roared.
The valet stepped in, appearing too sanguine. “You called, Sir Thomas?”
“Does Miss Benson know about these scurrilous papers?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. You might mention them to her. She’s working in the library but won’t be for much longer. Perhaps you should stop her before she leaves. She may pass by a newsstand.”
Thomas sprang from his bed and got washed and dressed in record time.
What was he going to say to her? She’d be more determined to leave now than ever.
Ah, the irony! He himself had thought of going to the press. And if he had, she wouldn’t be “Sir T-’s tasty treat” now, would she?
Harriet was hunched over her desk. Her new spectacles had slid down her lovely nose, and she glanced up at him with vague annoyance. He was not supposed to see her ever again, yet here he was, looking at her for the last, and likely unpleasant, time.
She checked her watch. “Good morning, Sir Thomas. I’m just finishing up here.” Her desk was immaculate, and she was all business. Where had his play-loving, happy Harriet gone to? “I didn’t expect to see you this morning, although it’s almost afternoon.”
He didn’t have a damn thing planned, so why should he have gotten up at the crack of dawn? Harriet was leaving. The foundation was up and running, he’d finished his new French novels, and it was too cold to ride the horse he kept in Town, or walk or drive about London aimlessly.
Thomas didn’t want to be aimless. He wanted to be aimed, preferably with Harriet at his side as a full partner.
He cleared his throat. “Have you read the newspapers today?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t had time. Some of us had work to do.”
“Well, stop working. I have to talk to you.”
Harriet put her pen down. She was one of the few people Thomas knew who added figures in ink rather than pencil.
“No more, Thomas. Please,” she said softly.
“It’s not that.” He ran a hand through his previously Cressley-neatened hair. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Is it my father?”
Not yet. But the man might be arriving on Thomas’s doorstep at any minute. “As far as I know, you old pa is not drowning himself in a vat of gin. From the reports I’ve heard, he’s settled in at the bank already. No, it’s something else.”
She was pale, her freckles more pronounced than usual. Thomas wished there were a way to break the news more gently, or, better yet, to keep her from it altogether.
That was impossible. Hitchborn had confirmed that a few newspapermen were loitering on the corner.
“Tell me, for heaven’s sake!”
“Well, it’s kind of silly, really. You might even laugh.” Fat chance.
“Go on,” she said grimly.
“Um, last night we were noticed at the play. I’m so glad you enjoyed it, by the way.”
Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Thomas, you are rhyming. And delaying. What do you mean ‘noticed’? You already told me what your friends said.”
“Yes; I swore you were my secretary. They didn’t believe me.”
“Yes, yes,” she said with impatience. “You told me this last night.”
He cleared his throat. “Some stories were written about us anyway.”
“Stories? In the newspapers?” Harriet turned parchment white. “Oh my God, did you destroy our original agreement?”
Truthfully, Thomas was not exactly sure where it was. “No one could have gotten hold of it. If they did, it would have been mentioned. This is just silly speculation about you being my mistress. Or maybe my fiancée. Nothing to worry about. But I thought you should know before you leave.”
Harriet rose unsteadily. “I’ll never get my fresh start! Oh, Thomas, how could you?”
Thomas ducked the flying fountain pen, though a few drops of ink splashed on his sleeve. “Now, Harry, you’re overreacting. This will all blow over in a day
or two. And you don’t need a fresh start! If you married me—”
“Enough proposing! I am entirely unsuitable to be your wife and you know it. I knew I shouldn’t have gone! A few hours of pleasure is not worth the ruin of my future. Stupid Scarlet Pimpernel!” She looked around her desk for something else to throw.
“I’d do anything to make you stay.”
Harriet stilled, her eyes narrowing. “Did you go to the press and stir up all this gossip? Why, you probably bribed my father to pretend to be unhinged so I would never go home!”
“I assure you, your father is unhinged without any help on my part. And I most certainly did not speak to any reporters.” Although, God forgive him, it had crossed his mind.
Chapter 42
Could the day get any worse? Harriet had cried herself to sleep and awoken with a headache from the champagne and sheer excitement of her evening.
And from what Thomas had done to her in the dark. For the very last time. She’d come to have a very fine appreciation of his sensual talents, and she would miss them more than she’d ever admit.
She deserved the headache. She was an idiot.
A sensible woman would accept the proposal of a rich, handsome gentleman. But she loved him too much to marry him, and she couldn’t be his mistress forever.
True to his word, the envelope had been on her desk when she arrived to tackle the last of the tradesmen’s bills for the Featherstone Foundation. Her hands shook as she opened it. The zeroes were enough to make her head spin. Thomas had overpaid her for her wicked week, which didn’t surprise her in the least. This was the sort of thing he did that drove Thurston to drink. But she wouldn’t see Thomas to argue with him over his generosity, and slipped the envelope in the pocket of her brown jacket.
She paid the bills and tallied everything up in the account books. Then she handwrote what was practically a manifesto for her replacement, detailing everything she had done and everything still to be done to secure the foundation’s success. Her fingers were black and numbers and letters danced behind her eyelids. She had discharged her duty. Thomas and his artists’ collective were someone else’s problem now.
A small carpetbag borrowed from the attic was already waiting downstairs in the hall. She was taking very little with her.
But now, apparently, she wouldn’t be leaving at all.
“I want to see the newspapers.”
“No, you really don’t.”
Harriet sat back down, shaking. “I can’t face this! Everything my father predicted is coming true.”
“I’ll deal with him if he comes here to bother you, Harriet. Ban him from entering. Look, stay here for another day.” Thomas cleared his throat. “Hitchborn tells me there are newsmen outside. They’ll see you if you try to go out.”
“What? Why are they here? What do they care what you do?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. It used to be kind of amusing, me getting written up doing things I never did. It—it cemented the bad reputation I wanted to have. Made it easier to be the envy of my friends. If they only knew how boring my life was before I met you.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Look, don’t try to wrap things up just yet. Don’t do anything. I promise not to touch you, or even talk to you if you don’t want me to. I’ll just pop out and have a word with my solicitor. Maybe speak to the reporters. See what I can do. This has gotten out of hand.”
Thomas left her alone, and she didn’t trust her legs to pace about the room. Torn between burying her face in her hands or screaming at the top of her lungs, she sat, staring at the fire.
It had been impossible to not like wearing the pretty dress, to not enjoy the experience of going to the theater. To not revel in sitting next to Thomas, breathing in his crisp cologne. She’d let herself get talked into something when she should have said no.
But oh! What a wonderful evening it had been.
It made today all the more difficult.
She would not go home, no matter what happened. She couldn’t. Maybe there was someone in the British Isles who didn’t read newspapers.
She had to see what was in them. Screwing up her courage, she rang for Hitchborn.
Perhaps the man was psychic. He arrived with half a dozen papers on a silver tray, as if that would smarten them up.
“Now, Miss Benson.” He tried to smile; a very odd sight indeed. “May I call you Miss Harriet? We have grown rather fond of you since you have come to work here.”
Harriet swallowed back her surprise. “Of—of course you may.”
“One mustn’t pay attention to the gutter press. Tomorrow they’ll find some new scandal to write about. If I may say so, the artist’s sketch of you is very flattering.”
Harriet gulped. “There’s a picture?”
“And a photograph as well.”
Harriet remembered the flashing lights as she and Thomas exited by way of the theater’s side entrance. She’d never dreamed people were trying to take a picture of her.
Hitchborn set the tray down and looked like he was waiting to catch her if she fainted. She picked up the first paper. It was still warm from the iron.
Whoever wrote the headline should be shot. Harriet skimmed the article. Apparently she was an unknown Amazonian actress. Next paper. No, she was Thomas’s secret fiancée. Hitchborn was right—the ink drawing was extremely flattering. She looked like one of Mr. Gibson’s girls, jaunty jaw, swanlike neck, and gravity-defying pompadour. Perhaps she should cut it out and have it framed.
Mystery mistress? Her tears stopped her from reading further. Hitchborn handed her a handkerchief.
“I’m r-ruined.”
“Not at all, Miss Harriet. If you marry Sir Thomas, the furor will die down in no time.”
“You—you know?”
Hitchborn nodded. “Nothing much gets by me, Miss Harriet. If it means anything at all, you have my approval.”
Harriet stared at the butler in shock. “You want me to marry him? How can you? You are the very soul of propriety. A secretary cannot marry her employer! It was almost the first thing they taught us at commercial college.”
“You are no longer in school now—and I should like to know why not, if there is mutual affection.” Hitchborn looked at her kindly. “The master is head over heels, Miss Harriet. We rather thought you returned his feelings.”
“But even if I did—and I’m not saying I do,” Harriet said, hiccupping, “my background precludes me from becoming his wife.”
“Piffle.”
Hitchborn said “piffle”? The world was coming to an end.
“I’ll think about it,” Harriet muttered. She had been thinking of nothing else. But Thomas needed a society wife, and Shoreditch was far from society.
She returned the tabloids to the tray. Hitchborn was right. Tomorrow there would be some silly new thing to intrigue Londoners. By some miracle, her name had not been mentioned anyhow. She could cut all her hair off and slouch, and no one would recognize her.
And there were important world events happening. The Russo-Japanese War, for example. Who really cared that Sir Thomas Featherstone took a strange woman to the theater?
“Is there anything else, Miss Harriet?”
“No, Hitchborn. You’ve been very helpful.” She paused. “Kind. Does everyone in the household share your feelings about Sir Thomas and me?” She simply couldn’t mention the word marriage.
“I cannot vouch for everyone. Most have not suspected. You both have been discreet. Some of the housemaids may be somewhat jealous when they discover that you and the master are going to make a match of it.” He winked at her.
Hitchborn winked. And said “piffle.” Harriet’s head was spinning.
He removed himself and the tray before Harriet could torture herself by reading more.
Chapter 43
Thomas would have the rest of the day to persuade Harriet that being Lady Featherstone could be . . .
Fun. Fantastic. Definitely not foolish.
Felicitous. Fair. Fam
ous.
Frisky. Lord, he hoped so.
Everything might fall into place, and all because he took Harriet to a play. He had half a mind to send Baroness Orczy a bouquet for writing it.
His solicitor had advised Thomas to let the notoriety die down. He was not under any circumstance to confront the few reporters who had stationed themselves near the house, for he might lose his temper and let something slip. Thomas had dealt with the press many times before, but never had they possessed the power to ruin his life.
No, not his life. Harriet’s. It was her reputation that was in peril.
Thomas had never questioned his own exalted place in the world—he’d taken his status in society for granted from birth. Harriet had no illusions about her own place in his milieu. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t fit in at all, but Thomas would make her fit, or die trying. No one would question Lady Featherstone’s right to hold his heart.
He would kiss her cares away, one by one. He’d slant his mouth over hers, tasting her hesitation. Fold her lush body against him, take his time, his tongue gently probing until she opened for him.
Would he get so used to this amazing sensation that he’d be bored someday? He hoped not. Really couldn’t imagine it. His toes were actually tingling inside his boots thinking about her. Thomas had many years of celibacy to make up for, and Harriet suited him so very well. Her height and softness were ideal for him, and her spirit was much to be admired. She was intelligent, resourceful, wise. All in all ideal, even if she’d been born in the East End.
She was in the library, staring into the fire. Her desk was immaculate, the ink bottle capped, the typing machine covered.
“I’ve left instructions for my replacement on your desk.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” He’d tried to sound jaunty, but she turned on him with a cold white face.
“I am, Thomas. I no longer work for you. You cannot tell me what to do in any respect. You are a . . . you are like a greedy boy who won’t stop eating chocolates until you get sick. Has it occurred to you that my body is mine? That as much as you’ve enjoyed yourself, I might want something different for my life? Someone else will come along for you. Lots of someone elses, if you are anything like your friends. Right now everything is new, and it feels good. It feels wonderful. But it won’t last.”
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